Nocturnal Admissions
by Fennelseed
Summary: Sam witnesses Frodo having an erotic dream. Much awkwardness and misunderstanding follow. [SLASH]
1. 1

Disclaimer: Same as ever: These are not my characters; I don't get paid for writing this.  
  
* * *  
  
Sam emerges gradually from sleep. The coverlet under him is unusually soft and fine, and without opening his eyes he fingers it and ponders the texture. Then he remembers where he is, smiles, and snuggles into the pillow contentedly, thinking of last night while he drifts in his half-awake doze.  
  
Yesterday was Frodo's 40th birthday, and he celebrated it modestly, gathering only a handful of friends at Bag End, and feeding them with the finest dining and the best wines. Sam helped prepare the food, but Frodo insisted that he join them at table, and leave the cooking to the lads and lasses he brought in from Hobbiton. Frodo also insisted that they all drink a toast to Bilbo's health since it was Mr. Bilbo's birthday too (even though nobody knew where he was anymore), and then an hour before midnight Frodo yawned hugely and told everyone he was an ancient old man who needed his sleep, and that they all must get home.   
  
(To Sam's eyes, and surely to everyone else's, Frodo isn't the least bit ancient - in fact, he'd pass for a tween if you didn't know him; that's how fresh-skinned and limber he is.)   
  
Frodo handed out mathoms at the door, and everyone thanked him and went home happy.   
  
But he told Sam to wait, and stay a bit longer, if he could. Sam said he could - there's nothing he likes better than staying longer at Bag End with Mr. Frodo, even if he's put to work doing dishes. But Frodo didn't make Sam do dishes. He gave Sam his gift: a tiny book in Elvish, no bigger than Sam's hand, but with the most astonishingly intricate drawings and perfect small writing. How anyone penned such hair-fine lines is beyond Sam, but it's the most beautiful hand-made thing he's ever seen.  
  
"I can barely read it, of course," Sam said shyly, bent over the book at the fireside, in Frodo's parlor. "My Elvish, it's not as good as yours..."  
  
"Tell you what," Frodo said, loosely fingering open another button on his shirt. He was looking flushed; the night was awfully warm, and the fire and the company had made the smial hotter than noon in summer. "Stay overnight, and I'll read some with you. You know, the way children do - a sleeping-over party! Only we won't be telling goblin stories; we'll be telling stories of kings, in the most elegant languages that exist. Come on, Sam, you must! It's my birthday and I command you."  
  
There was, indeed, no way Sam could say no to that. He ran - literally, ran - back to his house to let his Gaffer know he'd be at Bag End all night (that got him some grumbling, but not too much - Mr. Frodo knows best, after all), and then ran back up to Bag End with a change of clothes tucked under his arm for the morning. When he got there, Frodo was clearing the last of the dessert dishes off the table. He'd sent the serving lads and lasses home and the place was quiet.  
  
"It's hot in here, isn't it?" Frodo greeted. "Phew! That cook-fire, on a night like this..." He shook his head, and pushed a window open farther. "That'll be letting the moths in, but it's unbearable in here now. Come on - let's read in my room instead. This parlor won't be cool till morning."  
  
They went into Frodo's room and lit several candles, and found that actually it wasn't all that much cooler in there; so Frodo propped open that window too, but the night air just wasn't moving. Well, it didn't matter, Frodo laughed - they could go casual. They changed into nightshirts (Sam kept his eyes averted, even though they'd changed in front of each other before), and sat on pillows on the lush rugs to read in the candlelight, for it was slightly cooler in the bottom half of the room. And eventually the hour got late; and under the enchanting sound of Frodo's voice alternating between Elvish and Common-Tongue, Sam's eyes got heavy; and then Frodo was chuckling and telling him to get up on the bed and go to sleep.  
  
That's where Sam has found himself now. He opens his eyes and finds the room mostly dark - the candles have been blown out - but with a gray early-dawn light that's beginning to come in through the open window. Now the air from that window is fresh and cool, and the room is comfortable. And Sam is lying on top of the covers, on Frodo's huge bed, and Frodo is asleep beside him.  
  
And Frodo is naked.  
  
Sam turns slowly onto his side and stares at this vision. He doesn't remember Frodo taking his nightshirt off. He *knows* they didn't do anything with each other - why, they've never so much as kissed (not that Sam would mind). Must be that Frodo was too warm in the middle of the night, and threw the garment aside. Sam thinks he sees an edge of white, over on the floor on Frodo's side; that must be it. He takes another look at the casually-flung limbs and deep-breathing body beside him, and swallows against a sudden surge of desire. He should cover up Frodo. He should get that shirt and cover him up. Because, well, see, Frodo is...aroused. In his sleep, there, he's hard; it's pointing up toward his belly-button.  
  
But then, Frodo probably doesn't *want* to be covered up, if he's too hot; and in any case, getting hard when you're asleep isn't anything unusual - Sam wakes up that way nearly every day, seems like. He'll just shut his eyes again and maybe go back to sleep, and when Frodo wakes up he'll never know Sam saw him like this. And Sam can think about this all later, when he's alone, when it's safe to think about this.  
  
Sam shuts his eyes.  
  
Frodo whimpers.   
  
Sam opens his eyes. Frodo is shifting now; atop the covers, his body slowly twists, like he's having a dream. Sam wonders if he's all right, if it's a nightmare or anything. He watches with concern, trying not to look at that erection (it's still there; fine, he looked). Then Frodo pushes his hips upward, with dream-time slowness, and whimpers low again. Sam's concern melts into heat as he suddenly knows exactly what kind of dream Frodo is having.   
  
Sam gets hard too, then, trapped between his thighs as he lies on his side. He flexes his thigh muscles to rub it, watching as Frodo's hand squeezes a pillow and Frodo's knees twitch open wider. Frodo's head is turned to the outside of the bed, exposing a stretch of pale neck, but as another undulation ripples through his hips, he rocks his head to the other side, face turned to Sam. Frodo's long-lashed eyelids seem to tremble, as if his eyes are moving beneath them, and now his lips fall open to let his breath move in and out.  
  
Sam bites his lower lip and squeezes himself tighter between his thighs, squirming back and forth a little to increase the sensation; because this is too much; he can't watch this and not feel the same way. He lets his eyes go back where they want to: to Frodo's groin, lifting and falling in waves, like Frodo is making love to some maiden (or lad?) in his dream - and making progress, from the look of him. He's breathing faster, and unless Sam's eyes are mistaken, he's harder now too; the head is protruding more from the looser folds of the shaft than before. Sam knows *his* looks like that when he gets especially hard - which is a state he's approaching now. His heart pounding, Sam squirms and presses his thighs around his hot flesh, longing so much to just reach his hand down and touch himself...but how could he, here in Mr. Frodo's bed?...  
  
Frodo is whimpering continually now, and gently tosses his head from side to side. His pelvis rotates and seeks; his hardness strains against his dream-object; his thighs part, and Sam can see, in the growing dawn light, the swollen sac hanging like a pair of ripe apricots in that private nook of Frodo's skin. Sam presses his mouth to his arm to halt a groan. The mad idea has entered his head that he would like to *lick* those apricots...  
  
Frodo's hips pump upward insistently, two, three, four times, and he tenses. Then, as Sam watches in an erotically-induced paralysis, Frodo groans, and without anything even touching him, semen trickles and spurts onto his bare skin, coating him from nipples to navel.  
  
Sam's mind is whirling; he's thinking this is too good to be real, and at the same time knows with astonishment that it *is* real; and above all he desperately wants to come too, wants it so much that he almost does come. But the chance of Frodo waking up holds him back. Plus, his instinct for taking care of Mr. Frodo is clamoring in his mind: Sam can't leave him to wake up like *this*, all clammy and messy; think how humiliated Frodo would be! If it's possible, it would be much better to wipe him off without waking him up, and then he'd have his dignity when he did awake, and Sam would have an amazingly wondrous memory that he would never, ever speak of to anybody.  
  
So while Frodo's muscles relax onto the bedcovers, one by one, and his taut flesh starts to sag in exhaustion, Sam leans to the floor and grabs up his own kerchief, a faded green cotton thing that he knots around his neck to keep the sun off. Hardly daring to breathe, he edges his torso toward Frodo, and settles the kerchief onto Frodo's wet stomach with a shaking hand.  
  
All it takes is one hesitant swipe, though, and Frodo catches his breath and opens his eyes. "Sam, what are you...?" he mumbles in confusion, looking down his chest. Sam has frozen in terror, and a second later Frodo's eyes go wide. "Sam!" he cries in protest, seizing the kerchief to himself and shoving Sam's hand away.  
  
"It's all right," Sam attempts. "I was just-"  
  
"Just *what*?" Frodo mops himself up in quick, horrified movements.  
  
"You were dreaming," Sam begs, "and it ended - that way - and I didn't want you to wake up and be...ashamed..."  
  
"So you tried to *clean* me?" Frodo drops the kerchief between them as if repulsed, sweeps up his nightshirt from the floor, and wriggles into it faster than Sam thought possible. "That is above - *well* above - and beyond your call of duty," Frodo says, with a ghastly false laugh, as he tugs his shirt into place.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sam answers helplessly. "I meant no harm..."  
  
Frodo won't look at him. In fact, Frodo isn't looking at anything: he's dropped his face to his hands and is sitting hunched over on the bed. "I cannot believe this," he mumbles. "Can't believe it." His dark hair tumbles between his knuckles. Sam thinks it's even more lovely now, the curls disarrayed and wild from sleep, than when it's clean and combed and tidy. He wants to stroke those curls, make Frodo feel better, but he knows touching him probably isn't the way to do that right now.  
  
"Don't be upset, sir," he whispers. "Please don't be."  
  
Frodo shakes his head slowly, and does not look up. The white nightshirt drapes and clings on his body, enough so Sam can see he's shaking a little.   
  
"How about if I start breakfast?" Sam suggests, hoping a change in topic - or the idea of food, at least - will improve Frodo's mood.  
  
Frodo's fingers rub slow deep circles around his eye sockets. His hands and his shock of hair make it impossible for Sam to see his eyes. "I'm sure you understand that I can't face you right now," Frodo says softly. "Please help yourself to any of the leftovers from last night. Take some home to your family, if you wish."  
  
"Sir," Sam begins, wounded, but that was clearly a dismissal and there's nothing more he dares say. He pulls back, slips his feet to the floor, puts on his trousers, removes his nightshirt, puts on the shirt he brought with him, and, after a moment of uncertainty, picks up the wadded green kerchief from the bed. Frodo does not look at him, or uncover his face, the whole time. All Sam can see are glimpses of Frodo's chin and lips, so perfectly formed and so stiff that they're seemingly carved of marble. Holding his bundle of clothing, Sam murmurs, "I'll see you later, then." He waits at the door for an answer, waits for a full count of ten, but Frodo says nothing. Sam goes out quietly.  
  
He feels accosted by the rising sun outside. He walks down to his home without noticing anything around him except the sunlight and the annoying dust of the road as it sifts over his feet. He gets inside and passes his sister and says hello without thinking, and shuts himself into his own room. Last night's shirt and waistcoat fall to the floor. He leans against his door with the green kerchief clutched in his hand. He is hurt and he is confused, but most of all he is hard, very hard, and that needs to be dealt with first.  
  
He undoes his breeches rapidly, still standing there with his back against the door, and shoves them down just enough so they're out of the way. With one hand he grips himself and begins stroking, and with the other he presses the kerchief to his nose. Through the familiar scents of cotton and his own garments he smells the sharp, marsh-dank, rainwater-fresh, intensely intimate smell of Frodo's seed. His thighs tense, his hips move with his hand; he's so close and so swollen that he aches. The thought of Frodo feeling like this...the image of Frodo naked and aroused and twisting...the knowledge that this is what he smells like down there...  
  
Sam comes in a matter of seconds, soiling his trousers and a patch of floor between his feet. His knees buckle and he slides to the dusty wooden floor, breathing through his mouth with the kerchief still crumpled to his nose.   
  
"Oh," he sighs, feeling like he has just spent four hours running at full sprint across the countryside.   
  
He knows Frodo is unhappy and probably too embarrassed to look him in the eye for a while. He suspects Frodo might even be angry with him for presuming to try cleaning him up. He bets there's some unpleasantness ahead from all this. But he cannot say he wishes it never happened. He feels guilty for thinking so, but deep at heart, Sam Gamgee has to admit he's over-the-moon thrilled. 


	2. 2

Frodo cannot move from the bed. When Sam is gone, he merely tips over so he is curled on his side, and keeps pressing his palms into his eyes. This is so far beyond ordinary humiliation that he cannot even manage to weep in self-pity. He is calmly, fatally certain that he will never be able to face any living soul ever again. Not if they're Gamgees, at any rate. He groans into his hands.   
  
*You deserved it,* whispers a voice in his head, meanwhile. *You were asking for it. You were wicked, and you played with fire, and the fire won.*   
  
The worst is knowing that this voice is right.  
  
Last night started out so well. He'd thought about it for weeks beforehand, how he would conjure a way to get Sam to stay overnight. He'd spent days at different shops, different markets, to find a mathom that was beautiful enough and perfect enough for his Sam. He'd made sure that the fires were well stoked that night in Bag End so that the smial would be toasty-warm. The weather cooperated by being hot and still. Sam was clearly pleased with the gift and the invitation to stay; he acted charmed, and charming, and bashful. He was so trusting, falling asleep with his head on Frodo's shoulder, just a matter of hours ago, right there on the floor.  
  
Frodo cringes miserably, remembering the sweet beauty of Sam's skin, golden and soft-looking in the candlelight, his lips so tempting, a patch of strong bare thigh showing where Sam's nightshirt had hitched up. Certainly, Frodo wanted to touch him, kiss him, but he wouldn't have dared. One thing at a time, he had decided. As slowly as Sam wants to take it. Ideas and thoughts first; words next; actions last of all.  
  
So Frodo did what he'd fantasized about, what he'd planned: took off his clothes after blowing the candles out, and lay down naked beside Sam, thrilled with his own nerve, with what he was offering his beloved. Sam would wake up in the morning and see him there, would get to look at Frodo's body, would start thinking about being Frodo's lover if he hadn't thought of it before now...  
  
But then Frodo dreamed, while he lay there on his back, that Sam had rolled over and started to kiss him. Because this was a dream, and because Sam clearly wanted to do this, Frodo didn't give a thought to his "actions last of all" plan. Instead, he helped Sam out of his nightshirt and looked Sam's naked body up and down, whimpering when he saw how large and hard Sam was. Sam straddled him then, knees planted on either side of Frodo's chest, and started rocking back and forth so that their erections rubbed together (slick and silky in the dream, with none of the awkward friction that might exist in reality).  
  
*It feels so good,* Frodo told him. *Mmm, Sam...*  
  
*Ohhh,* Sam moaned, arching his back. *I want you...so hard it hurts...*  
  
*Keep going,* Frodo begged, straining against him, straining for more of him. *Like that, yes, just like that.*  
  
*Oh - I can't hold back,* gasped Sam, *I'm going to come - it's com- I'm going to - ohhh!...*  
  
*Oh, Sam!*  
  
And then Frodo came instead. In reality. Before Sam's very eyes.  
  
And rather than asking him in a sultry voice who he'd been dreaming about, Sam apparently saw him as just a poor messy sleeper who needed tending to. Trying to *clean* him...for the love of heaven...  
  
Frodo groans, louder, and clutches his hair in both fists. He's disgusting and pitiful and an idiot and has probably ruined his chances with Sam, and may as well give up society at large.  
  
His stomach growls. Slowly he uncurls himself, sighs, and trudges out to the pantry, where an array of sumptuous leftovers meets his eye. He seizes a rhubarb pie, a beef pastry, and a fork, and tromps back to his study to eat like a hog in solitude. It doesn't matter if gentlehobbits don't eat rhubarb pie for breakfast. Frodo has clearly gone too far to be considered a gentlehobbit anymore by anyone's standards. He slumps into his chair and digs into the food with no consideration whatsoever for table manners.  
  
* * *  
  
Sam doesn't see Frodo for the rest of that day, nor the next, though he goes up to Bag End both days and works for hours in the garden. The only way he knows Frodo is home is from the occasional scrape of a chair or clink of silverware from behind the meticulously closed curtains and doors. Sam's willing to be patient. He's willing to let Frodo hide his face for a little while - why, if the roles were reversed, he'd be blushing to outdo the sunset for the next ten years, and surely wouldn't be able to face Frodo for some time.  
  
But Sam is concerned, and does want to see Frodo, since (he has to admit to himself) he's more or less completely smitten with him and just wants to make sure Frodo *will* talk to him again someday. Ideally, Frodo will even invite him to stay overnight again someday, and maybe that time Sam will have the nerve to brush him a kiss goodnight, or even snuggle up against him, and if their hands start to wander, well, that would be more than fine...but Sam's getting ahead of himself now. He blinks to bring himself back to the present, and firmly closes the shed door after putting the shovel away.  
  
It's the evening of the second day. Before he can lose his nerve, he advances to the door of Bag End and cautiously taps at it. Frodo doesn't answer. The door isn't locked, though, so Sam goes in. What he finds is dishes everywhere: casseroles and pie plates and custard cups and tea mugs and dinner plates, all scattered with crumbs and topped with sticky silverware. Frodo isn't anywhere to be seen, but Sam can guess he's behind that shut study door. Sam steps around an empty basket that once contained pears, and knocks. "Mr. Frodo?" he asks. "You all right, there?"  
  
"Fine, Sam," comes the soft answer.   
  
"Can I make you anything for supper?"  
  
"No, thank you. The food from the party is tiding me over quite well."  
  
"I see that," Sam mutters, not loud enough to be heard. Then he offers, raising his voice again, "I'll just tidy it up out here a bit, then, and be on my way."  
  
"Thank you," Frodo says, almost too quiet to catch.  
  
It takes Sam near an hour to clean up and put away all those dishes and forks and spoons, but Frodo still doesn't come out.   
  
Sam's beginning to formulate plans, two days later, to break in through a window if need be and force Frodo to see that things aren't so bad, and even tell him that, for goodness's sake, Sam *liked* what he saw. But luckily he doesn't have to do anything so drastic: he looks up from the autumn perennials, toward the end of the afternoon that day, to see Frodo ambling toward him, hands in his pockets. Frodo looks shy and serious, but not angry.   
  
"Hello," says the somber, beautiful master of Bag End.  
  
"'Ey," Sam answers, and mentally kicks himself for not being more eloquent.  
  
"I wanted to say..." Frodo draws shapes in the grass with his toe, and focuses intensely on that. "...that I'm sorry. For everything, the other morning."  
  
"The morning..."  
  
"After the party." Frodo gives him a brief glance under his lashes, seemingly to make sure Sam understands which day they're talking about. As if Sam has lots of such mornings and therefore might be in doubt.  
  
"You didn't do nothing to be sorry for," Sam says.  
  
Frodo sighs, and turns his gaze to the gold-tinted clouds in the west. "Well, I shouldn't have been so sharp with you. And I still can't believe what I...well." He shakes his head.  
  
"You were just upset. I don't blame you for that. And as for having the dream in the first place..." Sam isn't sure whether to go on; Frodo has shot him a cautious look. But he can hardly leave the sentiment unfinished now, so he continues: "Never say you're sorry for dreams. They're not your fault."  
  
Frodo shrugs one shoulder, and turns aside. "I feel a fool, all the same."  
  
"Don't. I feel a fool, too. I - I could've handled it better."   
  
Frodo's glance at him now is almost shocked. Sam catches the unintentional double entendre, blushes hot, and quickly adds:  
  
"I don't mean *handled* it - not *it* - not - oh, I only mean I shouldn't have startled you." Sam looks, flustered, down at the flowers he's planting. Everything that seemed so clear and tender and perfect for the last few days is suddenly now a pitiful mess.  
  
To his surprise and relief, Frodo laughs, a rueful chuckle. "We're an awkward scenario, aren't we, Sam, dear?" He sounds embarrassed, not seductive, but that "dear" still shoots into Sam's blood like a thunderclap. Sam has never been "dear" before, not to Frodo.  
  
All he can manage in answer is a chuckle of his own.  
  
Frodo strolls a step or two toward the smial, then stops, and turns around again. "I didn't...*say* anything, did I? In my sleep."  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"You sort of - murmured, I suppose - but I couldn't catch no words."  
  
"I didn't say a...name?"  
  
"No." Sam dares to smile again, and to tease, "Why? Were you dreaming of someone I know?"  
  
Frodo looks flustered, and almost annoyed. "That's enough of that," he warns, and goes back toward the smial. "Goodnight," he calls briefly over his shoulder.  
  
Sam stares after him, stares at the flowers, sits back on his heels and stares at the sunset. Now, what in the name of heaven was all that?  
  
Then, in a flash, he knows. It all makes sense.   
  
A few seconds after that, he thinks he must be wrong, he *couldn't* know - that couldn't be the answer. Frodo wasn't dreaming of *him*. But...calling him "dear," asking him to stay behind when the others had left, inviting him to sleep in his bed, looking at him the way he sometimes does...is the explanation as simple and as wonderful as that? Sam's heart seems to be thumping in a vast circuit all over his insides.  
  
Sam doesn't know if he's right. He gets the rest of the flowers planted, hands unsteady in the comforting soil, and brushes the loose dirt off the surrounding grass. He doesn't know, but he's willing to gamble on it, for think of the winnings! And by the time he's putting away the gardening tools and going home, Sam knows just what he'll do to test this idea. He will lie.  
  
(To be continued.) 


	3. 3

Frodo has finished off a griddle-cake with jam, and is in the pantry, prodding a wheel of cheese with a fork to see if it's still fresh enough to eat, when he hears the knock on the front door. He pauses, jam-sticky lips twisted in a grimace. He isn't sure he wants to receive visitors yet, since he hasn't quite reconciled himself to the notion of rejoining society. But maybe it's Sam, and maybe that would be all right, since he seemed so sympathetic yesterday when Frodo apologized to him - why, he nearly asked the magic question ("Who did you dream of?")...and, for that matter, Frodo nearly answered. Sam probably meant nothing by it, but hope, Frodo is finding, really does spring damnably eternal.  
  
Before he knows it, Frodo is at the door, cautiously opening it a couple of inches to peek outside. Sam lifts his chin and beams a warm smile at him. "Afternoon, Mr. Frodo!"  
  
Frodo feels a hitch in his heartbeat - not fair for Sam's mere voice to give him goosebumps; really not fair - and opens the door further. "Hullo, Sam. What can I do for you?"  
  
"Actually, I thought maybe I could do for you." Sam lifts a wooden box covered with a cloth. "I just checked in on your springhouse, and found some luscious-looking things left over from that party. Thought maybe you didn't know they were there, and I wouldn't want them to go to waste."  
  
"The springhouse!" Frodo takes the box and lets Sam inside. "I didn't even think to look there. Those serving lasses must have taken them down there." He carries it to the kitchen table and removes the cloth. The collection of mince pies, bottled cream, fruit salad, and chocolates he finds inside lifts his spirits considerably. "I *knew* there should be some chocolate left over!" he says, reaching in to take things out and spread them on the table.  
  
Sam has closed the front door and followed him into the kitchen. "Is there now? Funny, that. I had a dream last night about chocolate."  
  
"Everyone ought to dream about chocolate." Frodo unwraps the paper from a large bar of it, and inhales the sweet, dark scent.   
  
"Matter of fact," Sam continues, and now he sounds shy, "it was one of *those* dreams. I...I think your dream gave mine ideas, like."  
  
Frodo pauses, and lifts his eyes to Sam, hoping he understood correctly. "You...had a dream like mine? Last night?"  
  
He sees that Sam is blushing. "Yes, sir," Sam admits.  
  
"About chocolate?"  
  
"Oh - not *just* about chocolate." Sam laughs, picks up a fork, and starts rearranging pieces of fruit in the salad bowl. "There was a person in it too."  
  
"Oh." Frodo's knees aren't too steady; he sits down at the table.  
  
Sam follows suit, sliding gracefully into a chair next to Frodo, still toying with the fruit salad. "I'll tell you about it, if you like...but you'd have to promise you wouldn't tell no one."  
  
Frodo starts breaking the chocolate into pieces. He laughs shakily. "After what you could say about me? No, I wouldn't tell, Sam."  
  
"Well..." Sam sends Frodo a becomingly bashful glance. "It started out with me here in the kitchen, as it happens, with you."  
  
"Mm-hm," Frodo agrees, focusing on the chocolate.  
  
"I was showing you how to make a chocolate dip for fruit and biscuits and things. You know the type of dip I mean? You take heavy cream..." Sam picks up a bottle of cream, gives it a shake, and removes the cork. "...Pour some out and put it over a low fire, and melt bits of chocolate in it." He pulls a soup bowl closer, and pours cream into it. "I shan't bother melting it now, but here, try this." He picks up one of the chocolate shards under Frodo's hands, and dips it into the bowl until it (and Sam's fingertips) are coated with cream. He licks a drop off his finger, then holds out the piece of chocolate for Frodo to eat.  
  
Nearly drooling for one reason and another, Frodo obediently opens his mouth and eats the cream-covered chocolate morsel from Sam's wet fingers. It tastes divine, of course. "Mm," Frodo agrees in approval, a soft hum.  
  
"Nice, isn't it? So where was I?...aye, we were in here melting the chocolate. And I dipped in a piece of fruit and gave you that..." Sam spears an apple wedge on a fork, dunks it in the cream, and tilts it toward Frodo.  
  
Frodo is beginning to sense a strange game going on here, but rather likes the direction it seems to be taking. Of course, any moment now Sam will tell him that the dream suddenly took a strange turn and Sam found himself on the kitchen floor with an elf maiden. Frodo sighs, leans over, and takes the apple with his teeth. "What happened then?" Frodo asks through the mouthful of fruit and cream.  
  
"Then..." Sam ducks his head, smiling. "Well, then I..." He runs his finger around the edge of the bowl of cream. "I saw a smudge of chocolate on your lip...and rather than touch it off with a corner of my apron, I...well, I stepped up close and I licked it off, sir."  
  
Frodo takes in a sharp breath. Sam's finger comes to a stop on the bowl, and his eyes lift carefully to Frodo's. The look in them is hopeful, sweet, and, unless Frodo is getting things very wrong, amorous. They stare at each other for a few silent seconds, then Frodo takes hold of the seat of his chair and pulls it closer to Sam. He picks up a broken piece of chocolate, dips it into the cream, and offers it up for Sam's lips. Sam watches his every move, then returns his eyes to Frodo's as he takes the chocolate into his mouth. "Mm," he murmurs in thanks.  
  
"What did I do then?" Frodo asks. Knowing the rest of this dream has become the most important thing in the world to him. More important even than dessert.  
  
Sam swallows the chocolate. His face is aglow with blushing, but he answers the question: "You licked me back. Sir."  
  
"No need to call me 'sir' when I'm licking chocolate off you," Frodo says; he means it to sound like a joke, but it comes out low and breathy.   
  
One side of Sam's mouth curls upward in a smile. "I'll remember that."  
  
"Well. Go on," Frodo requests.  
  
"Well, then," Sam resumes, "then we...well...I'm not sure how it happened, but I was on this table right here...sitting on the edge of it, and you were standing before me, kissing me, and I was kissing you right back; and the chocolate, it was getting everywhere...so I said we oughtn't get our clothes all dirty like that, and...and so we took them off..."  
  
Somehow during all this, Frodo and Sam have leaned closer and closer to each other, elbows propped on the table, and now they are quite within kissing distance. This, and the things Sam has been saying in his halting, husky voice, have been arousing Frodo almost to the point of madness.  
  
"Do you..." Frodo interrupts. "Do you mean to say...*I* was the one in your dream? All the way to the...end?"  
  
Eyes moving along Frodo's features, Sam nods slowly. "All the way."  
  
Frodo closes his eyes in a second of rapture, and then reopens them, worried. "And you - enjoyed this? You're not afraid to tell me about it?"  
  
"It's like I said," Sam says, still husky, still inches from Frodo's mouth. "Can't control what you dream of. And yes. I enjoyed it quite a bit."  
  
"Do you know," Frodo says, almost whispering, "there's a bit of cream there, on your lip..."  
  
"Is there?" Sam whispers back. Rather than move to wipe it off, he tilts his head, quite in the manner of someone expecting a...  
  
Kiss. Frodo is doing it before he knows how he got there. His tongue is delicately tasting cream and chocolate on Sam's upper lip, and then their mouths are pressed together, and Sam is definitely responding, and they have slid forward on their chairs so their knees are interlocked. Frodo is beginning to suspect that Sam made up this whole dream story, as all the elements were entirely too convenient; but, considering the purpose for doing so, Frodo thinks that is fine; that is just fine.  
  
* * *  
  
Author's note:  
  
OK, kids, there is definitely more to this story, but it really cannot be considered R-rated; it is beyond a doubt NC-17. So if you want to read it, it's at my website: http://home.earthlink.net/~fennelseed/nocturn.htm  
  
...but you can still leave comments here if you like. ;-)  
  
Thankee; over and out. 


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